Ravenclaw Blues
by Fish and Bird
Summary: How did Snape end up being the tortured individual he is today? What events led him down the path to Evil?


**Ravenclaw Blues**

by Fish and Bird

A/N: It is important here to note the debt owed to R.A. Heinlein in his seminal novella 'Starship Troopers' for his 'Muggle' take on Marxism.

**Chapter 1 – The End, Part 1**

19th April, 1982

It was a pleasant spring evening and the air was heavy with the scent of honeysuckle. As the swollen globe of the sun dipped below the horizon, there was a breathtaking combination of purple and orange hues to the scattered clouds. It was a magnificent vista which would have held the gaze of even the most jaded of onlookers. It framed, albeit temporarily, the renowned Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; the most inspiring of man-made artefacts silhouetted in black against an unsurpassable work of nature.

Everywhere one might care to look there was an abundance of fauna. From the courting sparrows in the sky above the lofty towers and steeples to the red deer frolicking under the watchful gaze of the mighty stags under the eaves of the Forbidden Forest, it was evident that this immense Scottish valley was teeming with life.

It was truly a scene of heart-stirring beauty...

...marred only by the deadly nature of the pursuit taking place on the school's roof, where tiny figures could be seen moving at reckless speed.

Emma Costa, a Seventh-Year Ravenclaw, was leading the pack. She was a willowy beauty in the bloom of youth and was managing to maintain the edge she had on her pursuers, even over the treacherous moss-covered tiles. So fast was she running that her robes billowed out behind her, making the job of those behind that bit more difficult. They had a hard time of it spotting obstacles on the narrow path between the angle of the roof and the precipitous edge of the hall. Already, several had fallen with sprained ankles or worse, leaving the more athletic of their accomplices to try desperately to succeed where they had failed.

Head and shoulders above the majority of the group hot-footing it after Emma Costa was a tall man with a hooked nose and twin veils of greasy black hair. He was surprisingly fleet as few had ever seen him do more than stalk around the castle and its environs, sourly taking house points from those who did not wear the green of Slytherin. Yet here he was, this young professor, actually managing to close the gap between himself and the speedy, young Ravenclaw.

His long face bore a most curious expression which almost defied description; by turns there were anger, fear and...desire. As Snape vaulted over the hunched form of a screaming Hufflepuff, whose left knee was clearly bending the wrong way, he could see that they were over halfway along the length of the gargantuan Great Hall. Realising that the girl was not far from achieving her evil goal, he snarled as he redoubled his efforts.

Unlike the sickening adolescents whose amateurish efforts served only to hinder him, Snape had mastered his body long ago. While not the strongest, tallest or fastest man in the world, he had worked to maximise those physical attributes which he did possess. Many the time had he seen a fellow Death Eater fall foul of an Auror due simply to the fact that they were unable to move either swiftly or dextrously. Barging his way heavily between a Slytherin, possibly Trevelyan Hague, and an unknown Gryffindor who were mere inches from their quarry, Snape could see that he had run out of time. The Ravenclaw girl had almost reached her target.

As he pumped his legs and lungs for all they were worth, he was mildly surprised to find that it irritated him that he could not recall her name, but then he had only been teaching here a short period of time. When Albus Dumbledore had offered him the position of Potions Master, it had been as a lifeline to a drowning man. Though he had co-operated fully with the Ministry of Magic and had personally been instrumental in downfall of over thirty Death Eaters, still he had been shunned by the upper echelons of society; exactly the tier of the wizarding world where he felt he belonged. The seed of what would be his bitterness towards all humankind in later life had already been planted in fertile ground.

With a look of grim determination and a feral snarl, he launched himself horizontally at the girl. He very nearly succeeded. As he landed on his left side, screaming at the agony in his hip, the girl's empty robes were clutched in his right hand. He himself was scant inches from the edge of the roof and her robes fluttered as they hung over the edge. The girl herself traced a brief, graceful arc out over the edge of this, the most emblematic of Hogwarts' buildings.

His own cries of pain drowned out the sound signifying that Emma Costa lay in broken heap far below, having succeeded in her suicide.

As he screwed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth against the intense pain down the left side of his body, he pondered her last words. Reaching the edge of the building, as well as the end of her life, she had spun around just as she had jumped. With her long tawny hair spiralling around her, she had seemed to be a ballet dancer; both graceful and alluring. Meeting his eyes for the briefest of instants, she had calmly spoken four words in a wonderfully warm voice.

"_There is no hope."_

**Chapter 2 – The Middle, Part 1**

Just two hours later Severus Snape was well on the road to recovery. Well, that was if he was to be judged by his temper.

He had broken his hip when he had fallen; by far the worst of the injuries in the Hospital Wing according to Madam Goodman. If this were true, and Snape made it a point not to question the views of that formidable harpy, then the reason why the beds surrounding him were littered with groaning forms of his erstwhile companions in the chase for the Ravenclaw girl was quite beyond him. Naturally, he had been placed in the centre of the ward so as to ensure that he enjoyed not the slightest modicum of privacy. It wasn't that Madam Goodman disliked him; quite the opposite, in fact. She was very much an advocate of the 'Old School' of medicine, which was,

"_Shut up, lie still, take your medicine and go to sleep!"_

Not for her the unlimited visiting hours or bedside sympathy of these new, young healers. She was of the firmly held belief that the more comfortable a patient was, the more likely they were to be tempted to _malinger_ and enjoy the comforts of the sickbed. And if there was one thing lower in life than a Death Eater, it was a _Malingerer_. Her patients swore that they could hear the capital letter as she pronounced the dreaded '_M_' word. Therefore, she personally made sure that each and every one of her charges was regularly and liberally dosed with the foulest-tasting concoctions available. From a purely professional point of view, Snape was curious as to what exactly she put into her restorative draughts to make them taste so foul.

So there he lay in bed, arms folded and uttering not a single sound. He took his potions without question and followed the instructions of Madam Goodman and Healer Pomfrey without hesitation. This stoical acceptance of the less-than-tender ministrations of the healing staff had earned him their grudging respect: here was a patient who understood what medical care was all about.

If only the ham-acting brats and their melodramatic interpretations of mortally wounded tragic heroes were shown the door, he would not be terribly unhappy to spend a few hours in quiet reflection. Since the girl, whose name he had since learned was Emma Costa, had succeeded in her single-minded attempt on her own life, he had been feeling...out of sorts.

Solitude; yes, that was what he told himself he needed - nothing else than a short time on his own to order his thoughts.

Snape would be a long time waiting for his peace and solitude. Under his baleful gaze, Goodman and Pomfrey bustled around the beds of the almost invariably jug-eared guttersnipes. In his day, students would rather have taken a flogging from the sadistic caretaker Apollyon Pringle than submit themselves to the pitiless prodding of Madam Tipping. Salazar Slytherin himself would have quailed under her many-chinned gaze.

"Drink this potion!"

"I beg your pardon," drawled Snape in a tone of voice which made it very clear that he did, in fact, do no such thing. At his side was Healer Pomfrey, high in his estimation of the staff at the school for the very simple reason that not once had she sought to engage him in superfluous conversation.

"Er, do drink this potion, there's a good man," she repeated looking taken aback.

Snape was giving her the look he had practised as a young boy by hunting out the worst-flavoured Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans and deliberately eating them whilst looking in a mirror. After letting her squirm under his hard-eyed glare for a few seconds, he deigned to look at the proffered potion.

"What," he drawled, "is it?"

"It is a combined potion which consists of an anti-inflammatory for your hip, a weak Skelegrow to aid rapid bone replacement and an anti-pyretic for the slight temperature which this potion will give you."

"Humph! I will take it if, and only if, you tell me exactly what it is that _Madam_ Goodman puts in her potions to give them their..._unique_ flavour." With this he leaned back into his pillows and concentrated on the flavour of 'Raw Onion and Ox Tongue', one of Mr Bott's less-appetising efforts.

Though she was older than the young professor, Poppy Pomfrey knew that she lacked the authority to force the potion on him. She also was perfectly aware that she hadn't the beauty to cajole him into taking it. Being an honest and upstanding Hufflepuff, she was also wanting in the guile required to trick him into swallowing the admittedly vile-tasting potion. She sighed.

"I believe Madam Goodman uses a tincture of fermented Bog Slug combined with powdered Wart Crow droppings, Professor Snape."

Raising an eyebrow and showing the merest hint of a smile, Snape took the potion and drank it down. The Bog Slug was an obvious component, but guano of South American Wart Crow? Madam Goodman must have been a Slytherin, he thought to himself.

"Delicious," he pronounced with a pursing of his lips that suggested otherwise.

Healer Pomfrey retreated from the unsettling man's bed as fast as her legs were able to carry her. At the express instructions of the Headmaster, a sleeping draft had been added to Professor Snape's potion. Tutting at this underhand and unseemly conduct, she gave thanks that she would not be on duty when he woke up. Livid would not be the word.

When his eyes opened again, the beds around him were empty, the hall was lit only by a few scattered candles and silence once more reigned. He mused to himself that this would have been an ideal an awakening as possible under the circumstances had it not been for the fact that somebody had seen fit to drug him.

He found that he did not care one whit.

What was more, he was not at all curious as to the source of the dreamy lassitude that had stolen over him whilst he slept. Closing his eyes, he was content to merely _be_ - to exist for these brief few moments without having to think, say or do anything whatsoever. It was a curious sensation to be sure.

"Ahem!"

"You would think, would you not Headmaster, that after having lived quite as many years as you have, an 'ahem' would sound altogether more natural and not at all forced," Snape said in a sleepy voice.

"Ah, I am afraid, Severus, that like many other people you attribute to me god-like powers that I do not possess. Yes, I may be what, for want of a more sophisticated turn of phrase, some people deem to be a 'powerful' wizard. I am forced to admit that due to the heavy burden of my long years that I do, in fact, possess experience in abundance. I might also, my young friend, be intelligent, erudite and wise. But I assure you that I am incapable of making an 'ahem' sound natural - I am not a bureaucrat."

Turning his head and cracking his eyes open, Snape looked upon the kindly eyes and unforced smile of Albus Dumbledore. He was seated quite comfortably in a dark leather armchair - the exact colour was indistinguishable in this low light. Feeling dizzy and disconnected, he found his eyes running over the piece of furniture, admiring it. Often to be found in the offices and private quarters of those finer sections of wizard society to which he felt he belonged, this armchair was one of those whose arms and back were on a single level. The undoubtedly fine-quality leather from which it was made was dotted with hundreds of brass studs. As a child he had often stared at the similar chair in his father's personal library and let his imagination conjure up shapes and patterns in those fascinating metal points.

Many thought appreciation of beauty and elegance of form to be beyond this tortured man, but they were wrong. He simply had no use for it at this juncture in his life. Sighing, he pulled both his gaze and his wandering mind back to the old man sitting in front of him.

"My apologies Headmaster," he said whilst frowning, "I appear to be having some difficulty focussing my attention at the moment. A little extra something was popped into my potion, perhaps? Perchance at the behest of someone sitting not a million miles from myself?"

"That is correct, Severus," confirmed Dumbledore with a calm nod of his head.

"Why?" drawled Snape in his unmistakable nasal voice.

"Because I feared that you would lose control of your seething emotions and either do or say something you felt would embarrass yourself. Understand me when I say that I did not take the decision lightly. You are, after all, an adult and are therefore quite capable of taking decisions for yourself." Holding up his hand to forestall Snape's obvious desire to interrupt, he continued. "Severus, you have until but recently been under enormous emotional strain. When you were unable to save the girl, I could feel the barely repressed guilt tearing at you from the other side of the castle. I sought to do nothing more than preserve that which you hold so dear: your dignity."

"I thank the Headmaster for his kind consideration," stated Snape matter-of-factly, "but would seek to remind him that it is not his place to interfere with other people's lives."

"You are, of course, quite right. Severus, tell me; are you angry?"

"What?"

"Angry, Severus; are you angry? This is a simple question, is it not?"

"I am...," he left the sentence unfinished as he was unable to think of anything to say.

"You are currently unable to categorise your emotions, Severus, because you have never felt these particular ones before. In layman's terms, you are experiencing what I believe is referred to as 'Survivor's Guilt'; a common enough problem amongst those who have lived through times of conflict."

Dumbledore paused, as if to allow Snape to speak. When his companion chose not only to maintain the heavy silence between them, but also to screw his eyes tight shut, he continued.

"Your silence condemns you, my friend. The death of Miss Costa is a dreadful tragedy and is being investigated as we speak. However, it was not of your making. By all accounts, you were the individual who risked the most to prevent this most terrible of events: a self-inflicted death. You were, I believe, found with the girl's robes clutched in your hand mere inches from the edge of the roof. That was quite a risk to take."

"One that any member of the Hogwarts' staff would have been duty bound to take," Snape murmured in a low voice.

"Indeed," agreed Dumbledore with an amiable nod of his head. "I am also given to understand, Severus, that your chase was the most impressive. Is it not so that you joined the pursuit after the majority of the students in the pack? There were many fit, young students on that roof who were, on parchment at least, much more likely than you to succeed in running her to ground. Yet it was you who took the most inadvisable of routes, the most perilous of leaps in order to close the gap."

Dumbledore paused to pull at the tip of his nose before continuing.

"After this evening I give you my solemn word that I will never again revisit either this conversation or this subject, but I feel honour-bound to broach this matter at least once. Severus, you have been deeply traumatised not only by the events of this past conflict with Lord Voldemort, but also by a long and unhappy childhood. To put it succinctly, you have a brilliant mind and a damaged soul. Always have you chosen to play your cards close to your chest with regards to your private life, so I do not know your mind on this matter. I would seek to impress upon you, however, that I feel you to be on the cusp of a very important branch in your life.

"I would offer you the following advice as your friend and not as your Headmaster: search your heart on this matter, Severus. Even as you offer to the world the harsh and uncaring mask that you have fashioned for yourself, there still exists a more tender soul that lies beneath your breast. You may now choose to acknowledge the strangely powerful emotions you are experiencing over the death of a girl whom you never even dealt with on a professional basis as a symptom of a deeper, more urgent problem. Alternatively, you can elect to ignore the reality of the situation and let yourself sink into a profound abyss of hopelessness and pointless recrimination."

At this point Dumbledore rose from his armchair and stepped over to the side of the bed. Frowning slightly, he withdrew a roll of parchment from inside his robe and pursed his lips whilst contemplating it. After a few moments, he sighed and placed the parchment between Snape's hand and leg.

"I leave this, Emma Costa's suicide note, for you to read. I do not take this decision lightly, Severus, but do so in order that you might see the ramifications of loneliness and despair."

Reaching out his hand, the old man laid his palm on the forehead of the still unmoving patient.

"Do not lose sight of your true self, dear Severus," he said quietly, in his husky voice.

After counting precisely 1,000 heartbeats since the sound of the Headmaster's footsteps had died away, Snape opened his eyes. The silence in the ward was absolute.

Fighting the iron bands which sought to constrict his chest and suffocate him, he pulled himself into a sitting position; careful not to touch the roll of parchment. As the minutes moved by at a torturously slow rate, great beads of perspiration rolled down his forehead. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his hand crept closer to the last words of an unknown girl.

Steeling himself, he began to read.

**Chapter 3 – The Middle, Part 2**

"What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly..."

Thomas Paine

_My name is Emma Costa and I am seventeen-years-old. My father is Cuthbert Costa and my mother Henrietta Costa née Haversham. I haven't any brothers or sisters._

_We live in the tiny village of Much Hoole in Lancashire, in an old converted farmhouse. Daddy says this is to make sure I don't grow up to be a 'little princess' like all the purebloods in their immaculate townhouses. Mummy and I laugh when Daddy goes on like that, what with him being from one of the oldest pureblood families in the world._

_We have a horse and a donkey in a paddock behind the barn, called 'Old Fat Horse' and 'Donkey' respectively. I gave them their names when I was very young and Daddy wouldn't change them when I got older. We also have chickens, pigs and gnomes. The only time I ever see Daddy angry is when the gnomes damage anything on the 'farm' as he calls it. He starts swearing in Greek which he learned from Grandpa Nico._

_Mummy puts out food for the gnomes sometimes._

_The reason why I am writing this note is to explain what I am going to do after dinner this evening. I think it's important that everyone understands that it wasn't an accident and that I hadn't been magically induced to do it in any way. I chose to do it. I also want to prove to people that I understood what I elected to do; that I wasn't some silly, misguided little girl._

_Wizardkind enjoys an excellent quality of life - this is something we come to understand if and when we take Muggle Studies. Perhaps the most important indicator of this fact is the long life expectancy of the average witch or wizard. Whereas there exists no appreciable difference between the two sexes, there does exist an enormous difference between Muggles and Wizards. Putting aside the use of such artefacts as the Philosopher's Stone, due to the use of magic in healthcare we might reasonably expect to live to about 100 years of age. The average for a Muggle is about 75, and that is in the western industrialised countries. Merlin help those Muggles who live in poorer countries! The value of magic, then, is inestimable._

_Less quantifiable than age is the quality of life which we lead. Those who are purebloods or who have spent little or no time around Muggles simply cannot comprehend just how awful their lives are. They spend all day, every day in dull little jobs which afford them absolutely no satisfaction whatsoever. Half of their economy is based on people doing awful jobs for others who can afford not to do them. For example, can you imagine cleaning toilets for a living? The very idea is anathema to a witch or wizard who with a simple, 'Scourgify', can clean anything. Apply this to any number of menial tasks such as painting walls, preparing the raw ingredients for a meal and moving heavy objects._

_You may or may not know that in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, the average Muggle spends just under two hours a day travelling to and from work - two hours! If you were to tally the actual amount of time a day that a Muggle was free to spend on his or her chosen pursuits, why, it would amount to little more than an hour! Wizardkind, were they to be fully cognisant of this fact, would be horrified. It is virtual slavery, after all. If not in thrall to others, Muggles are undoubtedly in thrall to themselves. Stress-related illnesses are one of the major factors detrimentally affecting the lifespan of Muggles. Again, the value of magic and the beneficial effect it has on our lives is priceless._

_Magic and value, value and magic; it is all very well to bandy around these terms, but what do they really mean? There was a famous (or infamous, depending on your point of view) Muggle politician called Karl Marx. This man claimed that the fruit of any given labour belonged to the worker who produced it and not to the employer; that labour was, in and of itself, valuable. This is wrong, wrong, wrong._

_Can you cook? I certainly can't. If I tried I would turn raw ingredients - flour, eggs, sugar and yeast - into an inedible mess whereas a skilled chef would produce a loaf of bread with a certain value. These ingredients have a certain value which I reduce to zero whilst the chef increases their value. A master chef might even produce an even greater product with a higher value._

_The same is true for Death Eaters. How long does it take to create something magically? The more complex the item, the longer it takes and the more effort and expertise it requires. Professor McGonagall can produce 'valuable' things - items with monetary worth - with little effort. I cannot, nor can the majority of Wizardkind. The professor is a master of her craft. However, if we asked her to produce valuable crystal goblets, she wouldn't be able to do so faster than somebody could destroy them._

_And this is the crux of the matter: it is easier to destroy than to create._

_It is not only easier, but it is quicker and, for many people, more gratifying. I told a lie at the beginning of this note. We don't live in a farmhouse; we lived. Mummy no longer puts out food for the gnomes; she used to. My Mummy and Daddy were killed by Death Eaters for being a pureblood/Muggle marriage. Mummy was a witch, of course, but the fact that she was born to a bloodline which contained but a single witch angered them._

_All the good that they were, that they did, is gone from the world._

_Professor Flitwick was very worried about me, of course. He tried to help me and succeeded in doing so - well, a little. But, as I sat in the library and carried out my Arithmancy calculations, I realised that Dark Wizards will one day win and that day will be soon. Lord Voldemort fell to Harry Potter, but there will be another. As Albus Dumbledore almost failed to defeat Grindelwald, Lord Voldemort was already at Hogwarts. How long will it be before the next Dark Lord rises?_

_Not long._

_I could go on to have a long and productive life, it is true. What would be the point, though, when it either I or my children would be destined to torture and servitude?_

_We are all doomed to naught._

_What we obtain too cheap, we do not value. Whoever is reading this note undoubtedly does not value their freedom. Most likely they have done nothing to earn it, either._

_Anyway, I have reached the roof of the Great Hall. I can hear people calling my name; demanding to know what it is I am doing. Dear Professor Flitwick has probably set them to watching me for my own safety._

_It is too late._

_There is no hope and I am going. Now._

**Chapter 4 – The End, Part 2**

20th April, 1982

In the small hours of the morning, less than twelve hours since the death of Emma Costa, Severus Snape sat in the quiet darkness of his personal chambers nursing a balloon-glass of the very finest red wine.

The only sound, apart from the rustle of the parchment, was the muted tick-tock of an old clock on the mantelpiece which didn't even show the correct time. Nobody was ever invited into Snape's private quarters, but had they been, they might well have had their curiosity piqued by this single unexpected idiosyncrasy.

He was ordinarily loath to drink alcohol, but tonight he was using it as a simple potion to calm his beating heart. At least, that is what he told himself. His expression was, at first glance, inscrutable. Yet had anyone been there to watch the young professor, they might have imagined a slightly melancholy expression on his face. He looked down and re-read the final line of the parchment for the umpteenth time.

'_There is no hope and I am going. Now.'_

The scroll slipped from the professor's hand to lie on the cold flagstones of his floor.

"What sort of explanation is this?" whispered Snape hoarsely. He rose from his chair and began to pace unsteadily, though it wasn't clear if it was due to the alcohol or his injury.

The inexplicable rage had been building in his breast since he had hobbled out of the hospital wing after reading the parchment for the first time. Arriving at his suite of rooms, he had lowered himself onto the sofa in a haze. Sitting there for an hour, he hadn't moved a muscle. This pretty young thing had killed herself as the result of an Arithmancy exercise. She had, in effect, committed suicide with logic.

It beggared belief!

Why should he care that she had died? He damn well shouldn't, he sneered to himself.

But he did.

Stupid girl!

Idiot Ravenclaw!

Pathetic half-blood!

"WHAT SORT OF IDIOTIC EXCUSE FOR AN EXPLANATION IS THIS?" he screamed, spraying saliva all over his robes.

With a curl of his lip he tossed the remaining wine back and swallowed it. Rising to his feet, he knocked over the near-empty bottle as he struggled to maintain his balance.

"Ravenclaws," he snarled, "they think _TOO MUCH_!"

With this, he unsteadily made his way to his bed chamber. Behind him, unnoticed, the dregs of the wine bottle slowly dripped onto the floor.

In his office, bathed in the pale blue moonlight of a now waxing moon, Dumbledore sat, distraught, and uttered,

"I have failed him, Fawkes. I failed to help him see that hope exists eternal. He has all but abandoned it and sees nothing but despair with his eyes. He is all but faithless and is lost to himself - to us."


End file.
